Crossing the Delaware
by icearrows1200
Summary: Revolutionary War AU. Alfred Jones is a young, anxious soldier who'd give anything for the tantalizing thought of Freedom. He embodies the spirit of the Revolution: courageous, eager, and independent; however, it will take him one of the most glorious moments in American History to realize the true meaning of Freedom.


_So this is my attempt at Hetalia fanfiction, which takes on more of a historical format for me. I love the revolutionary war, so this was a lot of fun to write. Canada/Matthew is more of 2P!Canada, but I did not initially intend it that way. Rather than him being normal or 2P, he's just a bit more brash than Canada/Matthew usually is. Regardless, this deals with Alfred embodying the American Spirit of pride and bravery, though it takes him this event to realize what it truly means to be a Patriot. _

_It is as historically accurate as I could make it. _

_Enjoy!_

The blasts of snow pelleting from the sky were blinding as they only increased in density as the night wore on; the gales captured each snowflake and shot them in a side-ways manner across the landscape. The sound of the Delaware River rushing even overcame the screaming wind, crying out, giving proof of its existence in the premises.

Alfred Jones, one of two thousand other frigid, dejected, exhausted men in uniforms barely suitable for this weather, marched along in the quickly accumulating snow around his ankles, seeping in through his worn and thin leather boots. At least, he noted, he _had _boots, unlike the poor fellow next to him whose soles had been so far worn out that he was inching along in nothing but socks. Teeth chattering, Alfred hid his chin further in his coat collar, trying futilely to ignore the stinging, biting pain of the cold on his exposed hand that held his rucksack against his shoulder. He could reiterate the tantalizing notion of independence in his head a multitude of times, but even as a _devout _Patriot, he wasn't sure, during times like these, if it was even _worth _it. The air was so bitter, the wind so fierce that he swore paying more in taxes was not as ghastly as this miserable cold. As numbness spread from his fingertips to his palm, he could very well admit to himself that his mother's words held truth.

"_Alfred, don't be rash; know what you're fighting for. If you want to join the Continental Army, then at least inform yourself on the details of our rebellion. You're hardly eighteen, and battle may seem like an adventure, but I can assure that it's only worth it if you want it, if you can feel the desire of freedom in your bones."_

He had nodded, dismissing her with a laugh and a vallant grin. Of _course _he knew what he was fighting for: freedom from the Brits, those haggard lobsters who put a hefty price tag on goods that the colonists had no choice but to buy. His mother was brilliant and wise, he now came to acknowledge. It had only been recently that he had realized and understood the meaning behind "taxation without representation". Up until he had heard older soldiers ranting viciously about their expected compliance to the British government, he had assumed the colonists had merely gotten angry at the prices and declared independence.

Disappointingly, Alfred didn't feel very glorious as of now, clothes falling apart at the seams, toes sticking out of his boots, ears bright pink and buzzing with numbness. After the war (if he lived, of course- but he didn't like to think about that) he assumed his family, his country, would greet him with open arms, and he would go down in history as a hero: a man who saved a tiny population from the wrath of one of the biggest empires in history.

'_Dear God,' _Alfred exhaled as he continued to march, '_If anything, soften the wind.'_

A loud, stentorian shout emerged from the front of the array of soldiers, commanding a halt. The voice was of Colonel Henry Knox, the Chief Artillery Officer of the army. A stout man, he was easily distinguishable from the rest of the army by not only his physical appearance, but by the thunderous voice that could over-power both the wind and the river. Fortunately, Alfred was close enough to the front of the regiment that he could both hear and nearly see the man clearly. Beside him, perched on their horses, were General Adam Stephen, General Greene, and other men of high ranks.

General Washington, the intimidating, exceedingly tall, and brilliant mastermind of the army was most visible, issuing orders to the first line of soldiers- Virginian men, like Alfred.

Washington shouted an order, and it only traveled the distance that Alfred was from the front before it was carried away in the wind, "Soldiers, here we will cross the Delaware River in boats carrying about fifteen men each, including an experienced seaman from John Glover's Marblehead Regiment. Separate, small ferries will transport the artillery and horses. I will cross first with the Virginia Troops. Our goal is to arrive around midnight for a pre-dawn attack."

He finished, and though most of the army that stood anxiously behind Alfred did not hear the orders, they would soon find out.

As the first two rows of men began clambering into the boats, and the army shifted forward, the soldier beside Alfred began speaking to him, "Happy Christmas."

Alfred blinked, "What? Oh…" Though there had been a small celebration that morning, with slightly more food to eat and a general consensus of happiness, Alfred had already forgotten that today was Christmas, "Happy Christmas, to you, I suppose."

The man, several inches shorter than Alfred, looked quite similar to himself, almost enough that they might be mistook for brothers. His voice was mousy and quiet, seemingly exasperated.

"It's not very 'Happy' though, is it?" The man paused, looking down at his frostbitten feet in the snow, "I'm Matthew, by the way. Matthew Williams. I don't believe we've met, have we?"

Alfred averted his eyes from Matthew in an attempt to feel more secure of himself, "I'm Alfred Jones. And no, we've never met."

Matthew continued, answering the first question he had asked rhetorically, "It's wretched out here. I spent Christmas with a lot of people I hardly know, my hair is so filthy it's gone from blonde to nearly black, I'm thin as a rail and disgusted with whatever I eat, and now I'm expected to fight for a cause that… isn't quite successful, I should think."

"Not successful?" Alfred retorted, scoffing, "Didn't you read the pamphlet they gave us? 'Common Sense', wasn't it? Who was it by…? Thomas…"

"Paine," Matthew interjected, "Propaganda, all of it." He said it timidly, as though he wasn't sure of his accusation.

Alfred shrugged, sensing an uncomfortable aura in the air. He might be unhappy now, but a sudden feeling of Patriotism swelled in his chest, and he felt the undeniable need to defend his country both physically and verbally, "I think we've got a real chance." Alfred looked to Matthew, making intimidating eye contact. They were nearing the shore of the river, now. "If you think this is all just a joke, then why did you even join?"

Matthew laughed subtly, sarcastically, a jest to himself, "Why did _you _join?"

And Alfred wished he could answer that- he thought he could. But all the ideals of duty, self-actualization, pride, nationalism, glory flew away from him before he could speak of them. "You know," he finally said, "I thought I knew, but now I'm not so sure."

"In any case," Matthew took another step forward as their line became third to the front, "I'll be going to the Province of Quebec after the war."

Alfred was aghast, "What? After all the fighting? Once we've finally gotten rid of the lobsters over here, and become a new nation, you'd just leave? You wouldn't embrace it?"

"I don't think we'll win."

Alfred grew anxious, a pit of fear growing in his stomach, an idea that he had tried to hide from himself, "Now that's no way to talk-"

Matthew gave him a pitiful look, "Truly? One of the biggest empires ever to stand on God's Earth taken down by a few uncoordinated colonies?"

Offended, Alfred readjusted his rucksack and averted his eyes to face ahead. He felt silly, as if he had been an over-excited, jubilant and far too optimistic child that had been admonished and put in his rightful place. The threat that they would not win the war was all too real, but he had left those fears at home, tucked them into the back of his head.

"My apologies," Matthew responded after a brief moment of silence, "In all actuality, I'd leave because my father is a member of the Continental Congress, and if we lose this war, the British would not hesitate in harming those who sparked rebellion. Cowardly, I know, but it's a precaution I am willing to take."

They had reached the shore, and were instructed to climb aboard the boats with a dozen other men. Only then did Alfred realize how tremulous the water was, shaking and tossing as sheets of ice bobbed about in the choppy water. The man in charge of rowing introduced himself quickly as Theodore Bates before the boat left the shore and began making its violent journey towards the opposite side of the river.

* * *

They had finally, after what seemed like ages of turmoil and violent waters, reached the opposite side, greeted by scenery that looked unsurprisingly similar to that of their prior station. Windswept snow danced in the night air, biting their exposed skin relentlessly. Alfred and Matthew found their way to a small fire that other soldiers had set up. It glowed weakly in the wind, embers and charcoals letting off dense, gray smoke that only lifted a few feet into the air before being swallowed by the storm.

"What time is it, do you think?" Alfred asked no one in particular, and Matthew took it upon himself to answer, retrieving his pocketwatch, "Eleven p.m."

Jaw dropped, Alfred scoffed, "They wanted this done by midnight, didn't they? I reckon only a quarter of the men have crossed!"

Matthew scowled, "That, I suppose, means a pre-dawn attack is out of the question." Alfred coughed as he inhaled a cloud of smoke, "Is that going to be a problem?"

A man seated to their left around the flames spoke up before Matthew could respond, "I doubt it," he said, chewing a piece of dried meat slowly, "The fort isn't much, and the lot there are a couple of Hessians- German mercenaries- who'll be drunk and fat from their Christmas feasts. I reckon we could attack at noon and they'd still be asleep or lethargic in the least."

Matthew raised his eyebrows with intrigue. This man did prove a point, but attacking in daylight was still a risky endeavor, no matter the circumstance.

While more lines of men arrived on the shore, the storm seemed to increase in both strength and intensity, bitter elements biting their skin.

They remained huddled about the red embers for an hour or so, giving a haphazard conversation between chattering teeth. In the dense storm, Alfred didn't even notice that the fire had been extinguished; merely a weak stream of smoke lingered in the air. More and more exhausted, cold, men clambered on shore, each row more lackluster than the rest, until the clouds had passed over, leaving two thousand men, knee deep in snow, under the sanguine stars. Winter constellations of ancient fables ticked and moved as a natural clock, though a wristwatch was more convenient.

"Three in the morning," Matthew sighed, and he gathered his belonging out from the snow, "Everyone is done crossing, but I suppose we won't march until four."

Alfred hesitated briefly, debating on whether or not he should ask the question that had burned him before, the one that had gone unanswered. "Matthew?"

The fellow soldier turned to face him attentively.

"Why _did _you join the army? I mean, if you still think it's a far shot that we'll win the war."

Matthew smiled grimly, folding his arms as if to seclude himself, "The same reason as you, Alfred," He paused a moment before continuing, beginning to stroll past the crowds and into an alcove of trees where the voices of men were not as prominent. Alfred followed him, numb to the snow in his boots.

"Between you and me," Matthew glanced around, assuring they were in solitude, "My father convinced me. I don't know if anyone persuaded you, but I thought I wanted freedom, justice, and independence. Now, I'm absolutely sure that paying a few extra taxes isn't a problem in comparison to bloodshed."

Alfred looked down at his feet, feeling his stomach stir uncomfortably. Freedom wasn't simply an avoidance of taxes; freedom was the ownership of vast land, the mutual understanding of the realm from people who _lived _there, the romance of navigating rivers and forests without dictation three thousand miles away, and freedom was knowing that you made a difference in your world to your own benefit. Matthew was blind, because he was unaware of the motivation for independence. He couldn't feel the quickened pulse when rallies would shout and cheer for a free nation, when gunshots would break the air with wild unrest. Alfred was ready. He was ready to be the child of a new land, of a new government, of an untouched wilderness.

He sighed, turning towards Matthew with prowess and certainty, "No; I'm not here for the same reason you are."

When Matthew raised his brow in curiosity, Alfred continued, "I'm here because I'm ready to die for _my _country. I'm ready to fight for our descendents so they can live in a land where they are free and not dictated by a man thousands of miles across an ocean. I will throw myself into battle so that people who _understand _this land can make taxes for me. After all this, no one will fear oppression for their faith in God, or fret about speaking against anyone, or panic over the King's new laws. Because _that's _what Freedom is."


End file.
